Alcohol: Raymond Carver

That painting next to the brocaded drapery
is a Delacroix. This is called a divan
not a davenport; this item is a settee.
Notice the ornate legs.
Put on your tarboosh. Smell the burnt cork
under your eyes. Adjust your tunic, so.
Now the red cummerbund and Paris; April, 1934.
A black Citroen waits at the curb.
The street lamps are lit.
Give the driver the address, but tell him
not to hurry, that you have all night.
When you get there, drink, make love,
do the shimmy and the beguine.
And when the sun comes up over the Quarter
next morning and that pretty woman
you've had and had all night
now wants to go home with you,
be tender with her, don't do anything
you'll be sorry for later. Bring her home
with you in the Citroen, let her sleep
in a proper bed. Let her
fall in love with you and you
with her and then...something: alcohol,
a problem with alcohol, always alcohol-
what you've really done
and to someone else, the one
you meant to love from the start.

*

It's afternoon, August, sun striking
the hood of a dusty Ford
parked on your driveway in San Jose.
In the front seat a woman
who is covering her eyes and listening
to an old song on the radio.
You stand in the doorway and watch.
You hear the song. And it is long ago.
You look for it with the sun in your face.
But you don't remember.
You honestly don't remember.

Lying to mother

Have you, in the morning, walked around this

place? What does it look like, coloured in the

gray promise of an unformed day? Have you

seen the sun rise here?

Last night mother called, and she asked, will

you agree to the rules? Some of them are stated, and

most of them, spring out of the woodwork

only after you have broken them. I told her

I do not see any reason, not to

be ‘on board’. I told her, my

independence is forfeit.

I do sometimes wake up early, the times

when we go to sleep: this city looks strange at four, angular

cobblestoned, with such a lot of houses

coloured boredom. I walk in the mornings, a hungry

ghost feeding on sleepy desires: I imagine stories

based on the colours the houses are painted. I

take my hurt, and every morning, I colour it

the shade of other people’s failures.

Tomorrow, when she calls me, I will

not pick up the phone. Or I will, and tell her that I

am in love and not tell her that that someone

already broke my heart. We will

laugh over it, imagine futures which only one

of us will know are lies, we will write each other’s character. And

tomorrow, when she calls me, she will hang up happy. Tomorrow,

I will lie to mother.

A nose out of joint

‘Ahhh’

With a sigh of satisfaction, I drained the last drop off my glass of excellent scotch, and waved to the steward for the check.

‘You take it, JD’, said RN.

I made a gesture of exaggerated surprise. This was the first time RN had not offered to take a check. Something must be terribly off.

‘What’s wrong, RN? The nose-hair-trimmer business is running down?’

‘Very droll, JD. But seriously, yes, considering I might be shutting up shop soon, you might want to take that check.’

That called for another drink. I did the needful.

Now just for background, RN is the scion of one the foremost of India’s business families in that his business caters to a unique need. Story goes, his father was one who loved to play with words, and one day, as he lowered his not inconsiderable bulk into a barber’s chair and asked to have his hair trimmed, his mind went off on a tangent with the word ‘trim’ and somehow, it arrived on the phrase ‘trim your nosehair, on the run’. The rest, as they say, is history, and today RN (nickname, which obvious acronym, of course, came from years spent with us in school, and sticks to this day, like, you know what), inherited a fortune in snot. 

‘Go on.’

‘It’s all over the papers.’

‘I am sorry; I am rather behind the news.’

‘Ahh well, the double murder in Mumbai.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well…the murder weapon was one of my company’s nose-hair trimmers. And now people are calling for a ban on my ‘On-the-run’ nose hair trimmers.’

‘But that is stupid. People get their heads shoved in by bricks. No one demands we stop living in houses and start living in thatch huts.’

‘It is not that simple. It seems there is a culture based debate going on.’

‘Culture?’

‘Sort of. About the kind of people who trim their nose-hair. A big political party leader has claimed that if people did not trim nose hair, there would be no nose hair trimmers, and hence those murders would not have happened. And, it seems, we lost our culture when we began trimming our nose hair.’

‘Ha! So, it is less about culture, than agriculture. I like it…the agronomy of snot. Could make a fine play one day.’

‘The hell’

‘Ok, seriously. Ignore the guy. The media will find a new topic of outrage in a few days, and life will go on as normal.’

‘Oh, if only it were only as simple. Another political party took offense at his words. And *their* leader made another speech decrying nose hair, citing them as a sign of barbarism and uncouthness. It seems they conducted a survey on convicted felons, and found that most were not nose-hair trimmer users. And based on that, they are claiming that nose-hair trimming is what separates the civilized from the uncivilized. And they are exhorting me vigorously promote my product, for civilization.’

‘But that is wonderful news! Think of all the publicity you are getting!’

‘It would be. Except that the goons of the first party attacked one of my offices yesterday. Few employees were lucky enough to get away without hurt.’

‘Well…that is sad.’

And we buried our heads into our fresh drinks, trying to find a solution to RN’s problem. But if was unfindable…almost as if the bottom of the glass were an abyss we were bound to spend our lives trying to find the bottom of, while wearing lifejackets- there seemed to be only two choices- either drop the lifejacket and plummet to the bottom, or to float upwards. I made my choice.

‘RN, I think I have a solution.’

‘Yes?’

‘First thing you do tomorrow, arrange to provide hefty donations to both parties campaign funds. Just get them to keep this in the news for as long as possible. Cut all your advertising budgets. Send your staff on leave for a fortnight. Double the security on all your installations. I think that should crack it.’

RN blinked in confusion, and then, slowly, smiled.

‘Yes, JD, I do think that should crack it.’ He waved the steward over, ‘Why, I think I shall be taking the check, after all.’